The walls were chock-full of paintings. Some antique, some modern, inherited by a long line of ancestors, rich and poor: portraits of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and silk ball gowns, ungainly bowls of fruits or flowers with dead hares or pheasants, horses running across faded landscapes, mounted by gentlemen in funny costumes. Henrietta loved her paintings, these and the others scattered around the house. It was so easy to pretend—within the walls of her home—that the threat of abject poverty didn’t exist. Even on an empty stomach, she could sit in front of the carved fireplace in this pretty room and dream of happy times as she concentrated on her needlepoint.
Henrietta turned around to look at the stranger, with pride in the elegance and refinement of her home and wondered if he had noticed. This was after all an upscale house, albeit in a neighborhood that had seen better times. And she was pleased with herself that only the day before—by chance—she had given the upstairs a thorough cleaning.
Then she turned and beckoned the stranger to follow her.
Chapter 15. The Attic
The stairs got narrower and darker as they proceeded on to the next floor. Still, enough light flooded from the bottom of the stairs to see the way.
On this floor, Alfred’s mother had lived for a very long time, sick, diseased, always dying, always cruel, making her life a misery. Her room and that of her nurse remained firmly locked since the day she had been taken to the funeral home and the nurse had left. Those two rooms, she had no intention of ever stepping into as long as she lived.
As for the rest, the landing or foyer and the two front rooms she had designated for renting were clean, and the furniture was of good enough quality. Pretty paintings hung on the walls, and nice porcelain vases and curios adorned the tables. But suddenly, Henrietta felt uncomfortable. She really needed the money, but would the gentleman be satisfied with what he saw?
He followed her obediently, his heavy footsteps echoing in the stairwell, and she turned the lights on as they went. Aware of the excellence of the man’s clothes—and the superior class to which he seemed to belong—the furniture and the decorations on the landing suddenly looked shabby to her, but the gentleman nodded, apparently pleased.
“This is almost too grand for me, mam,” he said, looking around. “I was thinking more of sparse and simple.”
“But these are the rooms to rent, these two lovely ones in the front. They are large and spacious, and you’ll love the view from the windows. Will you follow me?”
“No, Mrs., um…”
“Mrs. Jones, sir. Mrs. Henrietta Jones.”
“Yes, Mrs. Jones. I mean, no. I see that the steps keep going upward. You mentioned an attic?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t remember talking about the attic. But there’s nothing up there you might like. Everything is old and neglected, with barely any usable furniture.”
“But Mrs. Jones, your house is so clean and charming, that I can’t imagine that the attic would be any worse.”
Henrietta despaired. She had hoped to rent these rooms for $100 a week. That was one hundred dollars a week, roughly four hundred a month. There was no way she could charge that much for the attic, full of discarded furniture and boxes of odds and ends.
“Would you not like to look at the bedrooms on this floor anyway? You’ll probably find them acceptable.”
“No, Mrs. Jones. My heart is set on taking a peek at the upstairs. Would you just humor me?”
The stranger gave her a winsome smile, and short of being rude, all Henrietta could do was to swallow hard and nod.
“All right, sir. Follow me.”
Henrietta held up the hem of her robe so she wouldn’t stumble on it and shuffled on carefully. She hated this last rung of stairs. The air was stale, the stairwell dark and humid, the steps too steep. She hardly ever came up to the attic. At Christmas time, it was Alfred who came up for the fake Douglas Fir tree and the numerous boxes of ornaments and seasonal accouterments, and he was the one to bring them back up.
She pulled herself up with effort, controlling the resentment she was beginning to feel for this inconvenient stranger.
Upon reaching the top, she heard the stranger gasp, and she turned toward him crossly.
“I told you that the attic was no place for a proper gentleman, sir. It’s dusty, and there’s barely any furniture.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Jones. Let’s just go and look around. I don’t mind the lack of comforts if the place is quiet.”
Henrietta sighed. What an annoying man the stranger was. She considered sending him on his way, but the thought of having money to eat better meals reminded her to be more gracious, so she shrugged and walked to the light switch.
A small, naked lightbulb came on overhead and the mean, yellow light cast a pale circle of doom around Henrietta and the stranger. She looked up at him and noticed the lanky, distorted shadow that he projected on the peeling wall and she shivered with foreboding. Her brain sent a glimmer of warning, as she stood alone, too close to this man who had such disturbing eyes, but she felt ensnared by the situation, unable to escape, like a fly in a web, and she clung to the front of her robe as she vacillated. But there was nothing to be done. She was no longer in control.
She sighed. The landing where they stood was bare of any furniture or attractiveness except for a few extra paintings that Henrietta had hung up on the walls because there was nowhere else to put them. On the far wall sat a rusty old-fashioned wall radiator, its paint peeling but probably still working. Otherwise, there was no rug, and the floorboards—built of lesser quality wood planks—groaned as they walked around the room.
“Alfred could bring one of the sofas up here for you,” Henrietta told him. “And with a small table, a rug for under your feet, and a couple of throw pillows, we could turn this into a proper sitting room.”
“Let’s see those rooms first,” the stranger retorted in an unpleasant voice that made her bristle. She didn’t like being talked to in that tone, but she wasn’t brave enough to complain. Impulsively, she wanted him out of her house. He was a complete stranger—after all—but if she was going to send him on his way, she needed to speak up right now. This had all been a big mistake. Renting rooms always sounded so good in magazines or television programs. But how safe was it, really?
Henrietta shrugged. This was what she had wanted. No point in prevaricating now. She walked to the attic door, opened it slowly and braced herself for the criticism. But to her surprise, the stranger’s dark, gloomy face lit up with satisfaction.
“Excellent,” he exclaimed, and for the first time, he put down his narrow leather bag and rubbed his long, thin hands together with a quick, nervous movement.
“This is just what I have been looking for,” he said with a chuckle. He walked around the room, his heavy steps lifting dust motes and making the floorboards creak. He walked with long, eager strides towards the gas stove. “Does it work?” He put a hand on the cold radiator.
“Alfred will turn it on. He understands about these things. But I do wish that you had allowed me to show you the downstairs rooms.”
“Mrs. Jones, I hope that you won’t insist anymore. This is exactly what I wanted to find. You must understand that I am a man of science. I do experiments, and I need big windows with plenty of light and a good radiator that will provide the heat I need. And for that, this will be perfect.”
Chapter 16. The Red-haired Woman
The red-haired woman looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. It had taken her a long time to apply the makeup, but it had been worth it. Her monsieur liked it when she dressed nicely and masked the imperfection in her skin, the pimples, the discolorations, the rashes, and she wanted to be pretty for him. On the nights that he came to pick her up, she didn’t need to stand on the corner of Hepburn Street in flimsy clothes that made her shiver in the cold. On those evenings when he came and picked her up, he generously paid for the whole night and then some, even allowing her—once in a while—to
stay home from work and spend the day and the night with her child. On those nights she earned enough to eat better for a few days.
She would do anything in the world to please her monsieur. And she would do anything in the world for her child.
She approached the armoire that had once been a beautiful thing and opened its large carved wooden doors. She frowned. Most of her clothes were working clothes, too brash for a proper date, too daring. Next time her monsieur gave her some extra money, she would buy herself a nice dress or two, the kind that decent women wore so that when she went out with him on a proper date, people would think that she was a proper woman, not a floozy.
The red-haired woman checked her phone messages and saw that her son and his babysitter had arrived at the woman’s home safely. Now she had nothing to worry about.
She zipped up her dress and quickly put a heavy winter coat on. Her monsieur didn’t like to wait, and he was already awaiting her at the entrance of the park, impatient to get going as usual.
She made sure her little mutt Dopey had enough food and water for the night, grabbed the house keys from the platter by the front door, and turning around one last time to make sure that everything was all right, she closed the door gently behind her.
Chapter 17. The Stranger
Henrietta watched the stranger warily as he walked around the room.
“This will be very useful for my experiments,” he told her with a disconcertingly sardonic smile as he touched the edge of the stone sink against the back wall with a lingering, caressing touch.
“Well, if you really think this room will suffice, there’s nothing more I can say,” she said, disappointed, thinking about the income that almost became hers but that now would probably be halved. Still, it was money, so she shrugged with resignation.
“Thank you for understanding, Mrs. Jones. And now, I must sit. I’m exhausted. I’ve spent the day walking the streets, looking for a place to settle down for a while. I thought about resting in the park for a few minutes, but the benches were frozen, and the cold wind just whistled through the open space like punishment. No, I couldn’t rest, so I got up from the bench and continued walking.”
“I understand. Please do sit,” she said politely, and then, after a nervous glance, she asked the question that had been burning on her tongue since she had opened that front door. “Does that mean that you intend to take the room, sir?”
“I’ll take the whole attic for sure,” the stranger said, looking around again. “This is exactly what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last few days. You have no idea, Mrs. Jones, how long I’ve been searching for a place like this, so secluded and private, and so clean. You would be surprised at some of the places I’ve seen. No. You’d be shocked. What a relief it is that I’ve finally found the perfect place. My weary search has ended, and I can relax at last.”
Henrietta watched the stranger drag himself to the single threadbare armchair in the room and plop himself down. A gentle cloud of dust surrounded him briefly and then dissipated.
The man was visibly exhausted yet had a strangely satisfied look about him that made her uncomfortable. Then, he closed his eyes, and after a few very long seconds, his breath quietened down, and she wondered whether he had fallen asleep. She didn’t like this man, but what could she do about it? The hunger that had become ever-present lately in her life gnawed at her like an unforgiving animal of prey, the unsatisfied gastric juices devouring her entrails, so the malcontent words she was thinking of saying died in her mouth and she sighed. They needed money for food. For survival. There was no other way than this.
Suddenly, the man sat up and looked around as if in a panic.
“Where’s my bag, Mrs. Jones? He asked, throwing Henrietta a suspicious glance. As if she had any interest in that ratty old thing, she thought, annoyed all over again.
“Why, it’s right here, sir,” she said, picking it up from by the door and carrying it over to where the stranger sat. “It’s not very heavy,” she remarked, surprised. “Surely you have some more luggage…”
“My bag might not be heavy, Mrs. Jones,” he snapped back at her unpleasantly and snatched the bag away from her, “but it’s full of important stuff. You wouldn’t understand. And as to my luggage, it was stolen. I’d rather not talk about that.” The stranger clutched his scruffy leather bag and stared at her with hostility.
Henrietta was aware that they had gotten on the wrong foot. Her antagonism must have shown and irritated the strange, and she regretted it. As annoyed as she had allowed herself to become, she did want to have a lodger. She really did need the money. She blamed Alfred for having provoked her into becoming a bitter old woman, she who had always been so much fun. She had forgotten how to be sociable. If this man wanted to rent her rooms and pay for them, she would re-learn how to be friendly, to be nice, whatever it took. So, she smiled shyly. Then she swallowed her pride and said a quiet I’m sorry.
At that, the stranger’s voice softened, his eyes lost their hardness, and he smiled beguilingly at her.
“I apologize for my short temper, Mrs. Jones. I’m so tired that I’m about to drop dead, and I still have to go out tonight, even though the weather has turned ugly, and it would be so much nicer to get in bed right now and rest.”
“But sir, there isn’t even a decent bed up here. How will you rest?”
“Maybe we could ask Mr. Jones to bring up one of the beds you say you have on the floor below.”
That startled Henrietta. She didn’t think Alfie would be happy to carry a bed and mattress upstairs. He wasn’t young anymore. But the stranger must have noticed her unhappy look because he quickly added, “I’ll help Mr. Jones, of course. Between the two of us, we should be able to manage.”
Henrietta sighed and nodded. It was obvious that tonight, nobody was going to be going to bed at a reasonable time. She headed for the stairs to let Albert know he had to get up from his beloved chair, but she turned around when she reached the banister.
“Does that mean you’ll take the room?”
“Of course, Mrs. Jones. Not only the room, but I’ll take the whole floor. I like the privacy up here. Even though there are all these steps that I’ll have to navigate up and down, the solitude will nourish my soul and help me with my experiments.”
She was cornered, and she knew it. Good idea or not so much, the deed was done. She had a lodger. And how she wished she didn’t have any misgivings. She took a step down, and then another one, when the stranger spoke again.
“How much are you going to charge me, Mrs. Jones?”
And here it was. This was the moment. Henrietta swallowed hard. All her bravery vanished, and she remembered how bad she was at negotiating. Still, she knew how much she wanted and how low she was willing to go. Now it was a matter of speaking her mind and standing up for herself. She could do this. She turned around and went back up toward the stranger. Her heart beat furiously.
“I just don’t know, all of a sudden,” she said. “The downstairs rooms would have gone for $100 a week, but they're nice rooms. Not like the attic at all. I won’t insist that you look at them, but they're so much better…”
“No point in arguing, Mrs. Jones. I told you that already. How about I take the whole upstairs for the $100 per week and pay a month ahead? Would that ease your worries?”
Henrietta was aware that she was blushing furiously. She felt sick with relief. The realization came with a bang that she had been going hungry for way too long. She thought about all the times that she had given part of her portion of food to Alfie so that he would be satisfied—the ungrateful man—all the while going with an empty stomach herself. She nodded happily.
“Yes, yes. That would be great, sir.”
“My name is Baxter. George Baxter. Now tell me one more thing, Mrs. Jones. Are you a good cook?”
“I don’t know, sir, Mr. Baxter. I’m not bad, but I’m no chef.”
“All right then. How about I throw in another $10 a day and y
ou make me breakfast and dinner?”
“Another $70 a week?” Henrietta swallowed hard. Would that be enough money to feed another mouth? “I guess we could give it a try, Mr. Baxter, and see how it goes?”
Chapter 18. Relief
“I couldn’t believe my eyes, Alfie. He took a thick wad of money out of his pocket, and gave me the advance there and then,” Henrietta sipped on her piping hot coffee as she told a very surprised Alfred the next morning at breakfast time.
“And you say they were all Hundreds?”
“I think so. And brand new, too, as if he had just gotten them from the bank.”
“He must be rich then. So why does he want to live upstairs in that ramshackle attic, I ask?”
“He says he does experiments and needs his privacy.”
“That makes absolutely no sense. Can’t he have privacy for his experiments in his own apartment? I wonder what he’s hiding.”
“I hope nothing gruesome,” retorted Henrietta. “He says he lost his luggage, but I’m not so sure. His clothes are beautifully tailored and look expensive. I agree with you that he has no business living in a place like this. But at least he paid enough to where we’ll have decent food for a while, so I’m not complaining.”
“And does that mean that you won’t begrudge me my daily newspaper anymore?”
“Oh, Alfie, you and that blasted paper.” Henrietta puffed. “I’ll make sure and give you $7 every week for your paper. I’ll need the rest to run the house and buy the food.”
“So, tell me, Henrietta, is he going to cook up there, or what?”
“He asked me if I could cook for him.”
“And is that what you want to do? That’s a lot of extra work, old girl. After I took the bed and the mattress upstairs, I thought I was going to collapse from exhaustion. There must be 500 steps from here to there.”
“What choice do I have?” she said bitterly. “It’ll take getting used to, having a stranger around the house and having to do some extra work. However, we’ll eat properly, and there will be enough money for the gas in winter, so no more shivering. I hope he stays for a very long time.”
The Stranger in the Attic Page 3